


The Bard and the Pheonix

by Marsbarss



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Asexual Enjolras, Bard Grantaire, Battlemage Enjolras, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Enjolras/Grantaire-centric, Everyone Is Gay, Half-elf Grantaire, M/M, Mage Courfeyrac, Mutual Pining, Roadtrip, Slow Burn, Soldier Enjolras, eventually i'll add more ships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-05-25 17:08:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14981702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marsbarss/pseuds/Marsbarss
Summary: Ten years ago, the country of Atrivais was conquered by  and subjected to the rule of the enemy empire of Tiryrium. Tiryrium rules with an iron first over the subjugated peoples of Atrivais, imposing strict curfews and laws meant to force assimilation into the greater empire.The remnants of the loyal Atrivais army stowed away in forests, mountains, wherever a rebel could. The Free Army of Atrivais regains their strength and maintains a constant conflict with Tiryrium, disrupting supply lines, protecting their people, trying to win back their country’s freedom.Julien Enjolras is one of the many soldiers under the command of the Rebel General Calixte Archambault, successor to the deceased General Lamarque.René Grantaire is a drunkard half-elf bard, novice mage, and one rather proud in his success of not getting mixed up in politics, rebellions, or wars. Until he discovers a horribly injured Enjolras after an attack by Tiryrium regulars in the village he’s travelling through.Suddenly on the run from the Tiryrium army and thus their government with an injured Atrivais soldier, he isn’t sure what to make of it all.





	1. Chance Meeting

Enjolras wasn’t the young and optimistic soldier he was when he first got his uniform before the war started. He witnessed the full atrocities of war in the last ten years, leaving him looking perpetually tired and angry. He was a commander now of his own force within the Free Army, and far less naive than he was ten years before. Though he couldn’t let go of his ideals nor his conviction. He was as spirited as ever, but less hopeful in situations like the current one.

He and his men were starving and half dead on their feet already. He had sent scouts ahead to secure the perimeter of the supply warehouse, and grew anxious when they hadn’t returned after twenty minutes. It was easy for his anxiety to eat away at him these days, especially when he hadn’t slept nor eaten in two days and felt just about ready to collapse as it was. All that kept him up was the enchanted necklace Courfeyrac had given him before they set out from the encampment in northern Atrivais. Combeferre had a similar necklace. Both were silver, set with simple onyx gems and glowing with the magic of their mage friend. While Enjolras could harness magic to improve his fighting, he was awful at enchantments and non combat magic whereas Courfeyrac was brilliant in all forms of magic. Their mage friend was currently somewhere across the world trying to appeal to the Council of Magi for aide against Tiryrium.

“You’ve got that look on your face again, Enjolras.” Combeferre mused beside him, chuckling and patting his shoulder. Combeferre, his lieutenant and best friend for years, was never apart from his side. The two were of a deadly combination in battle and were even deadlier when their minds were combined. They’d known each other since they were boys and now, almost twenty five years into their friendship, they were inseparable. 

“What look?” Enjolras furrowed his brow and glanced at his friend with eyes ringed in dark bags, crossing his arms and pacing even more angrilly than before, on edge from exhaustion and hunger.

“The sour look you get when you’re anxious.” Combeferre sighed and leaned back against the old cobble foundation wall of the abandoned mill. “The scouts will return any moment and the plan will move forward as it should.”

“Right-sure.” 

“Told you- Look, there they are now.” Combeferre gave Enjolras a kind, reassuring smile as the scouts returned to the camp. They approached their commander with a report, but were stopped short as two arrows raced into view, striking the scouts in the chest. Their lithe bodied landed at the feet of their commander and his lieutenant, lifeless. Blood soaked Enjolras’ boots and he immediately felt his stomach drop. 

Enjolras’ eyes widened and there was hardly any time to react. “Ambush! Everyone, to arms, it was a trap!” His voice rung over the entire camp as he drew his blade. His sword was enchanted dragonbone, inscribed with runes that ran along the center of the blade. His other hand reached for the pistol at his belt, also inscribed with runes. The ragtag group of Atrivais soldiers were battle ready in seconds, though many tired and pained already.

The green regalia of Tiryrium forces came into view, a flash of colour in the darkness, illuminated by torch light. They swarmed the camp, surrounding the area around the abandoned mill in a tight formation, forcing a conflict and trapping any exits. 

The battle that followed was a mix of disciplined green and battered, war-torn red. Atrivais’ banner stood at the middle of the camp, flying in the wind that night. 

Enjolras aimed steady for the first wave of soldiers, a ball from his pistol catching in the chest armour of one of the soldiers as he rushed another, sword drawn up and soon engaging enemy steel.

He was vaguely aware of Combeferre beside him as they faced what seemed like an endless tide of Tiryrium soldiers. Combeferre’s flail stuck an enemy soldier who had nearly sunk his axe into the leader’s head, smashing into the platemail with ease. He kicked the body away with his vigor suddenly restored, muttering a small prayer to the Atrivais war deity as he propelled himself into the fray. 

It became apparent when the battle was hardly past the ten minute mark that the Atrivaisans would not win. Their enemy far exceeded them in numbers, and had proper gear. Their soldiers were well fed and well rested meanwhile Enjolras’ force was hardly living before the battle started. Enjolras was at a loss as to what to do. They had little soldiers left.   
Combeferre grabbed Enjolras by the shoulder “We need to get out of here. They won’t kill us, they’re going to want information, why else send a competent force to fight of a raiding party? They know an officer that they can siphon information from is here.” Torture was the fate of any officers who were captured by the Tiryrians. They used any method necessary to extract what information they needed. It was generally considered a worse fate than death.

“And what? Abandon my men? I’d rather let them have me than be known a coward-”

“You’ll have no men left either way, Enjolras. Let’s go. If we’re captured we aren’t being rescued. No one ever comes out of those dungeons in the capital unless it’s in a body bag, you know   
That.” The two of them were already both gravely injured, and running out of steam. Enjolras couldn’t conjure any more magic let alone lift his blade.

Enjolras nodded solemnly. He knew that if they didn’t make it out of there, the fate left to them would be one so awful that no man should ever have to experience it. He needed to make it back to the encampment, let them know there was a traitor in their numbers. That was the only way the Tiryrians would know to have a force this large waiting for them. It wasn’t like this was an important spot to the empire. Just another village they kept supplies in. A full combat force was never left with a simple supply warehouse.

The next ten minutes were a blur to Enjolras as the two attempted escape rather than brace capture and a living hell. It ended up with Enjolras pushed down a slope, tumbling down with all the grace of a newborn foal, and landing in the water head first. He could make out the sound of fighting as he lost consciousness. The last thing he heard was Combeferre scream as frigid waters enveloped him.

 

Grantaire’s evening was one filled with laughter, signing, and music from his lute. He had managed a gig at the local tavern of some unimportant village and spent the last five hours enjoying free drinks, playing songs and spinning tales. He was thoroughly plastered when he stumbled out of the tavern in the small hours of the night, feathered cap falling off of his head indignantly as he stumbled down the dirt path that led through the town. He was singing loudly, rather off key now that his drunkenness passed the point of allowing him to perform well. His lute was strapped to his back with his pack, newly filled with rations and coin he’d earned.

For a half-elf, there wasn’t much work Grantaire could do or many places he could go. As if the attitude towards elves wasn’t bad enough in human cities, half breeds were hated on both sides. So, Grantaire kept travelling and earning his keep while lying low and keeping out of trouble. His ears were pointed just enough to give away his half elven heritage but when covered with the black curls of his hair, he passed well enough as human which was better for his remaining alive.

He chose not to stay inside the towns he visited, it was unsafe, so he made his way to the nearby river to set up his camp. He started with a fire, to warm himself and then laid out his bedroll. He stripped out of the outer layer of his clothes, turning towards the river to relieve himself in some bushes. When he approached he could have sworn he saw red in the water. Upon further inspection it was revealed the red was in fact the red tunic of a Atrivais soldier, mixed with the red of the bloodied water around him. Not good.

Now Grantaire wasn’t an unsympathetic man. He approached the bank to inspect the soldier, seeing if he was still alive. To his shock, he was, and thus dragged the man out of the river, laying him beside the fire, checking for a pulse. He was shivering, lips blue from the cold and pulse weak. His wounds were deep and many, that he could tell even with the soldier’s armour. This didn’t look good.

Grantaire systematically stripped the soldier of his armour, noting that when he removed his helmet beautiful golden curls draped his face, which was pale and perfectly chiseled. His right cheek held an old scar created by a blade, probably a knife. Grantaire had to tell himself to stop gawking and get to work.

He probably shouldn’t be doing this, he thought. If any of the Tiryrian guardsmen saw him aiding an enemy soldier, he’d be shot with this blond beauty. However Grantaire was a masochist, and couldn’t refuse a pretty face no matter how hard he tried. His drunkenness would make the task at hand difficult but he would manage.

Grantaire sat the tattered tunic next to the soldier’s armor, now out of commission on account of the dents and serious damage likely created by Tiryrian blades. The design of the armor set and tunic told him this man was an officer, and he guessed the only one alive of his group.

Drawing from his brief knowledge of healing magics, the bard pressed his hands above the man’s wounds and began to chant quietly. His hands began to glow with magic, and seal the wounds, stopping any further bloodloss. Unfortunately he could only do so much to meld the broken bone of the soldier’s arm and the deeper cuts, especially as drunk as he was, so he had to just apply a poultice and wrap the wounds then hope for the best. 

Patching up the wounded soldier left Grantaire covered in blood himelf, and needing to clean off. He returned to the camp a few minutes later and sat with his back against a tree, glancing over at the soldier every so often.

Morning came hours later and Grantaire wished his soberness didn’t come with the hangover that plagued him now, placing him in a sour mood. He had managed just a few hours of sleep before the light awoke him, feeling like it was nearly splitting open his head. With a groan, the man lifted himself to his feet and sifted through his pack for his water.

The soldier stirred nearby, thankfully not dead. Grantaire praised his handiwork silently and waited for the soldier to wake.

 

 

Enjolras woke with the frist thing he noticed being immense pain, and that he wasn’t captured. He pryed open his blue eyes slowly, blinking away the sleep in his eyes and seeing the sky before him. He wasn’t sure where he was. It was a slow and painful process to sit up, but he managed to do so while holding his tongue to prevent himself from crying out in pain.

“Mornin’, sleeping beauty, found you in the river last night. You’re welcome.” A black haired man tossed a waterskin and bundle his way. “You were in rough shape, probably shoudln’t try to move much.”

“Who are you?” Enjolras asked, picking up the waterskin and gratefully taking a long drink. It felt more refreshing than anything should have, and he took solace in this small thing. His throat was dry still and he took another long drink.  
“I go by Grantaire, I’m just a wandering bard.” The man, Grantaire gave a small nod as he intoduced himself.

“Ser Julien Enjolras, officer of the Free Army of Atrivais.” Enjolras straightened his psoture and tried to appear as unbattered as he could, thoughts of the previous night’s battle on the edge of his mind and threatening him with the thought of his failure.

“What’s a rebel doing here? You get tired of trying to fight a losing battle and come to retire? It’s a nice village over the bend. Sure some lass would settle down with a pretty face like you.”

Enjolras scowled immediately and he gritted his teeth painfully. “We were in the process of procuring supplies when we were ambushed.”

“Right, anyway, Enjolras, as soon as you can travel then run off to your rebel friends all right? I don’t need trouble.” 

“I don’t intend to stay here long as it is, I need to return to northern Atrivais.”

“Good, then help yourself to the food there, I’ll be back later.”

 

Grantaire headed into town to acquire two horses. He didn’t like the talk of an ambush. That meant the area would be crawling with soldiers of Tiryrium, and that was bad for business. He would bring the rebel soldier with him, and then send him on his way once he regained his strength. Simple enough. 

The bard stopped dead in his tracks when he saw a patrol of soldiers ahead and looped around them, taking a wide birth of where they were interrogating some villagers. They had a mage with them, dressed in the green of Tiryrium. If they had a mage then they likely knew Enjolras was live. This mage was one of their specially trained trackers.

Grantaire hurried his pace.

“I need two good horses.”

“All I’ve got is two, ser.”

“Then take two hundred silver and buy yourself two others, I’m in a hurry.” Grantaire shoved the coin into the hands of the stable hand and took the two horses by the reigns, once again taking a wide birth to avoid the tracker mage and his soldier companions. This was bad. He didn’t like the idea of leaving an injured man to his death, so a suicide mission was the onlhy option Grantaire would be taking. He returned to the little camp as fast as he could without drawing suspicion.

 

Enjolras knew that the chances he’d see Combeferre again were slim. If he had died last night, then well..that was that. If he was alive then he would be tortured for weeks and then killed. He could attempt a rescue but as it was he was injured, unarmed, and malnourished. Things just never were on his side, were they? Enjolras didn’t like to simply accept things as they were however. If he managed to find out where they were taking Combeferre(If he was alive), and intercept the prisoner transport then he could save him. If he didn’t do that then well he was talking about the greatest jailbreak in history. And King Archambault wouldn’t waste resources on rescuing a lieutenant. He’d need his own team. 

Courfeyrac would help, but he would need to contact him first. His hand absentmindedly went to the amulet around his neck, fidling with the onyx charm. Courfeyrac first, then he could go fro, there.

He noticed the bard Grantaire return about twenty minutes later looking panicked and leading two horses. 

“The village is crawling with Tiryrian soldiers and I am not waiting for them to find us and behead me for aiding a fuckign rebel.” Grantaire began attaching his packs to the first horse and then walked over to the Enjolras, helping him up. “You’re lucky I’m a decent person, I’ve half a mind to leave your ass here.”

Once Enjolras was on the second horse, and Grantaire had mounted the first, he led them away from the camp and in the opposite direction of the village. Oh this was a stupid idea. Why did he have to be a good person? Why did this soldier have to be so beautiful and entrancing? 

Enjolras just stared at the other, with confusion clear on his face. “You put yourself at risk to help a rebel whose motives you criticize?”

“Why not? I’ve done much more idiotic shit in my life. Just shut up. I have a hangover. We’re going to see a friend of mine. She can help.”


	2. Old Man Myriel

“Did you hear that?” 

The woods were silent at midday, the dark forest canopy drifting over them like a blanket and all but blocking out the sun. The trees were ancient and gnarled, dark wood a haphazard spread around them. The treeline was like a wall in some places with brambles and bushes filling any gaps. A small path just wide enough for a horse and cart wound through the wood, dirt and well trodden. They were the only ones on the road today, though signs of a merchant card were underfoot. 

“No. What? There’s nothing out here but birds and a few squirrels and shit, godling.” 

“Will you stop calling me that? My name is Enjolras, En-jol-ras.” 

“Got, it, princey.”

“I’m not a prince!”

“Coulda fooled me, didn’t know peasant blood ran so pretty, you have got to be like, half fae or something. Fae royalty.”

 

“I’m not half fae, I’m not royalty, and I would appreciate it if you would be quiet so I may think and so at least one of us is paying attention. We are deep in enemy territory!” Enjolras had such a serious look on his face, scanning the treeline with a sour expression and a harsh gaze. 

“You, are deep in enemy territory. I am just a poor unarmed civilian.” 

“You are insufferable is what you are.”

“Awh, thanks. I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all week.”

“Seriously, be quiet! I heard something..”

Enjolras stuck his hand out fiercely as he brought his tired horse to a stop, sharp blue eyes scanning the woods around them. They were deep in an area known as the Hallowwood, a thick and according to the legends, magical stretch of forest that cut through the center of Atrivais. It had been known to be considered sacred by many local peoples. In more ancient times, many worshipped within the wood. Shrines to dead and forgotten gods could be found at the end of overgrown paths. Carved stones dotted the landscape of the wood, symbols etched to warn or educate travelers of the deities that lurked within the rivers and the trees. Such things were most often treated as heretical nonsense nowadays.

“I practically grew up in these woods, Princey, trust me, there’s nothing scary here except some old shaman named Myriel, unless he’s dead now, in which case, his ghost is here and that might actually be a bit scary, if you’re afraid of ghosts.”

“What?” Enjolras furrowed his brow, whipping his head back to Grantaire. He hadn’t been listening, too busy slowly slipping himself down from his horse’s saddle, careful of his injuries. He’d healed enough to regain some mobility, but wasn’t at one hundred percent yet. 

“Are you afraid of ghosts, godling?” Grantaire asked, noting his words were ignored. 

“What? No. Where did that come from?”

“You haven’t been listening to a single damn word I’ve said!” Grantaire gasped in mock offense, now that he had Enjolras’ attention again. 

“I’m sorry that I am more preoccupied with our safety. Now be quiet, I’m serious, I think there’s something else here.”

“Like what? Vampires? Goblins? Some mystical wolf monster? Do you actually believe those things exist?”

Enjolras just scowled at him, eyes narrowed and unamused. He continued to scan the area, a hand on the hilt of his blade. Grantaire stuck his tongue out at him in what was a highly dignified gesture, looking as angry as he could muster and crossing his arms like a petulant child.

A loud roar cut through the air, nearly shocking the half-elf out of his saddle. Birds screeched and flew out from their perches in waves, desperately seeking open skies.

“Y’know maybe you were right, let’s get moving faster, shall we? Becoming dinner is not on my bucket list.” 

Before the two could get any farther however, before Enjolras could even turn to return to his horse, a large creature burst from the brush, blocking their paths. Their horses whinnied in alarm and reared up on hind legs, shocked and horrified. 

The beast was a hulking thing, almost standing taller than the horses on just its four legs, with dark, coarse fur cascading over rippling muscle. It had a head like a wolf, but more grotesque. Its fangs were as large as daggers, curved viciously and glistening. Saliva dripped from it’s terrible jaws and black lips. Golden eyes glowered at the two, animalistic and hungry. Perhaps it could be pipedal, due to the structure of the front paws. More like a human hand, but ending in sharp claws. The back feet were similarly clawed, yet lacked the human structure, more wolf than man. A tail thrashed behind it, long and covered in the same fur. It growled with such malintent that Grantaire was quite certain this beast was made of pure evil.

“Gods above. It’s a werewolf!” Enjolras shouted, drawing his sword on instinct. Never mind that this beast was over five feet tall on four paws and that one savagely clawed hand was as large as the soldier’s chest alone. 

“Yes, I can see that Enjolras! So- Run! What are you going to do with that tiny thing? If it’s not silver it can’t even harm the beast anyway!” Grantaire yelled, voice high-pitched with panic, sweat already beading down his brow. He gripped the reigns so tightly in an attempt to stay on his horse that he thought he might rip them. 

The sword wasn’t silver, it was iron, enchanted, but still iron. Iron did nothing against beasts like this. Only silver could leave a mark on such monsters. Enjolras knew this of course but this thing was huge, could their horses even outrun it? Fighting might be their only option, and if it was… Oh they were screwed. If their bodies were ever found it would only be bits of chainmail and leather left in a pool of blood, maybe a couple bones. 

Enjolras glared back at the werewolf as if he could defeat it with only looks alone, which on a normal day, Grantaire might joke about. The blonde man had a ferocious glare. However, the beast did not appreciate it. Heathen. 

The soldier took a half step forward, sword drawn and taking an offensive stance, ready for the beast to strike. He steeled himself mentally and sucked in a breath. This was going to hurt. 

The werewolf roared again, the sound loud and commanding. It shook Grantaire to the bones.  
“Enjolras! Come on!” He pleaded. Then the beast leapt at the blonde, and time stopped. Not in that metaphorical sense that you always hear about when authors want to be dramatic. Quite literally. Time just... stopped. 

Grantaire was frozen in place, wide eyed and aware that things had paused, the beast only inches from tearing the blonde soldier apart. It’s claws stopped just before Enjolras’ ribcage, it’s jaws open and positioned just above the blond man’s head. The soldier had barely raised his sword in response. Grantaire sucked in a breath and a small old man in threadbare robes shuffled into view.

The man wore a cloak over his modest robes, his face worn by age yet still kind and calm. He approached Grantaire on his horse and touched one end of his old wooden staff to the frozen man’s forehead. Suddenly, he could move. He gasped, slumping forward in his saddle, breathing heavily. His wide, green eyes met the man’s old blue ones.

“Wha-?”

“Come on, son. We haven’t much time.” He said, turning to tap his staff to Enjolras’ forehead as he had done with Grantaire. The soldier sucked in a breath and wavered on his feet, nearly falling over but catching himself. He stared at the frozen form of the werewolf in either disbelief that he was alive or disbelief that he didn’t get to fight it. “You two must follow me, quickly. Before the beast breaks from the spell.” He began to walk down a side bath that branched off from the main dirt road. Grantaire just about fell off of his saddle, a foot caught in the stirrups. He righted himself after a bumbling moment where his face almost hit the ground.

Enjolras and Grantaire exchanged a look before hurrying after the man, too shocked and terrified to question a thing. They could interview their savior later, once they were safe. 

 

 

The side path, which Enjolras was quite positive was not there before the man appeared, winded through a thick stretch of wood, far off the main path. It was as if the trees moved apart to create this modest dirt pathway. Beyond the path, the blond could see vast expanses of the forest. The brush scratched against the iron of his shin guards as they made their way down the path, the old man shuffling along in front of them, guiding them deeper into the woods. He moved with a gait, Enjolras noticed, that staff being used for support. It seemed mundane enough, but Enjolras wouldn’t underestimate this man, especially after what had just happened. Maybe he was a bit paranoid of enemy soldiers.

It was dusk by the time they arrived at the little hut, what little sunlight that made its way through the canopy disappearing. Grantaire squinted in the low light, the sounds of night coming alive. Frogs croaked in the evening glow, wind blew almost ominously, whistling and pushing branches that creaked. An owl darted past Grantaire’s peripheral vision, nearly causing him to jump. He locked eyes with the massive bird as it perched on a tree, before continuing ahead locking his gaze on the path once more.

The hut was small, made of mudbrick construction with wooden support beams and a thatched roof. It was old, the bricks worn and faded. The path faded out in the clearing the hut was located in, which was small and held few other constructions. A trough, for a goat that meandered across the area, munching on grass not far from an old and equally worn well. An axe sitting lodged in a tree stump, a pile of firewood by its side. A few barrels outside the hut held unknown contents. A small vegetable garden jutted out from the right side of the hut, kept separated by a small wooden fence. 

“Cozy place.” Grantaire balked. “You’re old man Myriel, right?” 

The old man, who had stopped to gather up the small pile of firewood, nodded with a pleasant sort of smile. A priestly smile, even. He seemed gentle like a clergyman. “I go by that name, yes.” Myriel’s voice was gentle in a way Grantaire never expected from the fabled witch of the Hallowwood. “Come in sirs, you are world weary, an old man can tell. I’ll get a fire started and fetch some water while you rest.” The old man shuffled into the hut to start the fire, coming out way too soon after, heading to the well. 

Beside him, Enjolras eyed the place with a measured suspicion but was the first to move closer to the hut, opening the simple door into a simpler space. Grantaire followed behind him. None of the accounts of Myriel had mentioned an *evil* witch, but part of Grantaire, that paranoid, anxiety ridden part, expected it. 

The hut’s inside was rather plain, a simple bed with hay mattress and blankets sewn from the pelts of animals rested in one corner. Adjacent to that was a small kitchen area with a water basin and counter space for preparing meals. Wooden bowls, spoons, mortar and pestles, small jars of fruit jams, and gathered vegetables were lain out along with a hunk of preserved meat. Not far away was a firepit, with a pot hanging over it on a spit. Two chairs rested not far, obviously pulled away from the nearby table that was covered in tomes(The old man knew how to read?), odd vials and bottles, and other curious items. Grantaire slumped into one of these chairs by the fire.

Enjolras stood in the center of the hut for a moment before joining Grantaire in the other chair. He sighed deeply and ran a hand through golden hair. Grantaire looked at him, and Enjolras looked back. A silent question passed between them, though neither really had the answer. 

Myriel returned in that moment with water, and lifted the bucket to the counter. He filled a kettle and the cooking pot, setting the kettle by the fire. He then began to chop up vegetables and by the time he was finished, the kettle was whistling annoyingly. Tea was shoved into the two fugitives hands a moment later. 

 

Thank yous were uttered and received with a kind smile. Soon, a stew was cooking over the firepit. 

Myriel said little and settled down in a third chair. “You boys have come a long way, your mission is dangerous, you’re pursued. The Tiryrium soldiers are not far away. Fear not, however, they cannot find this place.”

“How did you-” Enjolras began, rising from his chair far too fast, bright blues wide and questioning.

“Young Julien, there are things an old man knows,” Myriel said in that priest like tone. “Your friend is alive, and when morning comes, I will clear a path for you two to pass safely to Fairharbour.” 

Enjolras was stopped in his tracks, at mention of a ‘friend’. “So...Bastien is alive? Where is he? Is he hurt? How badly?” The questions came out rapidfire and Myriel shook his head with a gentle chuckle.

“I can tell you no more than what has been scryed, but I can offer a payer to the gods and reassurance that they favour you and your journey. Bastien is alive, not quite well, but he will live.” 

Enjolras was growing angry. “You can’t tell me any more than that but you know more, don’t you!”

“Young man, do not strain yourself.”

Enjolras scowled “I will not- I cannot wait here, I cannot delay if Bastien is alive. I cannot allow him to stay in the hands of those-” He cried out, slumping back in his chair as a wound pained him.

Myriel shook his head and stood, stirring the stew with a wooden ladle. “All will be all right with time, young Julien, rest now, you are no use to Bastien like this.”

The rest of the night passed in a blur. Grantaire vaguely remembered eating the stew, but he couldn’t remember what it was or if it was good enough, and the both of them resting on the bed, which was larger than it appeared. Myriel had left the hut after blowing out the candles, and all Grantaire remembered about that was seeing odd lights through the small windows of the mudbrick hut. He seemed to have drifted off around that time, letting an unnatural sleep overtake him...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow so uh, I finally got out the second chapter for this. Sorry for the wait, I will try to not leave such a massive gap between this chapter and the next. 
> 
> I'd appreciate any feedback you guys can give me! Comments will make my day.
> 
> -Mars


	3. The Drunken Dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little bit uneventful but I get to introduce Musichetta, which is always fun! Eponine will be coming in the next chapter, also maybe Joly and Bossuet? I'll hopefully have it out within a few weeks.
> 
> Enjoy! Your comments are appreciated and make my day!

When Grantaire finally came to his senses, he and Enjolras were out of the woods.

He vaguely remembered waking up that morning, to Myriel’s voice. Their packs were filled, their horses waiting, and a path that most definitely wasn’t there before, now that Grantaire thinks about it, clear for them to follow. He was in a daze for most of it, disassociated and like he was a spectator on his own life. He realised when he came out of it that it had been the old man’s magic which caused this.

“That was…..”

“Very strange.” Enjolras completed, sounding as out of it as Grantaire felt.

The two of them looked around, back at the Hallowwood where the trees had seemed to close up behind them, concealing where there had once been a path way. They were quite a ways away from the main road, Grantaire noted. Probably by a few miles, off to the east of the winding cobblestone road that would lead them to the port town of Fairharbour, where Eponine lived. 

Eponine was Grantaire’s best friend. She was a talented thief, and an even more talented witch, cunning and trustworthy. They both had originated from a more Southern town called Namaris, a tiny city state on the border of Atrivais. Eponine had moved to Fairharbour for a few reasons. Primarily, to escape her con-artist parents, taking her younger siblings with her. By “coincidence”, the handsome noble-boy Marius Pontmercy(Whom Eponine was absolutely taken for) hailed from Fairharbour. His family were wealthy merchants or something. Possibly knights, Grantaire couldn’t recall. He definitely remembered something about Marius’ father being a soldier, though.

 

“If we follow the tree line west of here, we should come across the main road before long..” Enjolras spoke next, snapping Grantaire out of his thoughts. 

“Right. Let’s get moving?”

 

 

Fairharbour was a large city overlooking the grand sea of the western side of Atrivais. The city was situated on a bluff, cut into the limestone shores. The harbour saw trade ships from all over the world coming to Atrivais, and an equal number of Atrivais ships leave with foreign nations in their sights. The center of trade for Atrivais was not it’s capital city, but its second most populated one, famous and old with buildings of limestone surrounded by white sand beaches. The city was busy all times of the year, colorful people and colorful wares filling the streets, it was a vacation and trade destination for anyone who could afford to travel there.

Leading up to the city were fields, farm houses dotting the sectioned off land occasionally. A cobbled road wound through fields and towards Fairharbour.

Grantaire had never actually been to the city before, only received letters from Eponine detailing her life there. It was riveting sight, the wall that stood proud around this port town. The wall itself was grand, several meters thick and made of sturdy stone, with watch towers placed periodically. He saw guards armed with bows patrolling the battlements some twenty feet above them. The gate was fixed with two sturdy wooden portcullises, a grated murder hole looming above the two travelers as they entered. Tiryrium guards in their green regalia put both Grantaire and his companion on edge.

The firstmost section of the city, closest to the walls, were where poorer sods resided, those with enough to live within the walls but not enough to live in the inner sections. This first area was filled with old stone buildings, newer wooden huts and dirty streets. The people wore homespun tunics and had drawn faces and calloused hands signature of the working class. Many of these people would work in various hard labour jobs, probably none living past their late thirties. Eponine would be in this section. She owned a small bar here, in one of the nicer sections of this layer of the city, with another witch named Musichetta. The small apartment space above the bar was where she lived with Azelma and Gavroche. Musichetta had a slightly nicer place somewhere with her two beaus(Scandalous, apparently, the three of them were in a strikingly open relationship. From Eponine, Grantaire knew their names were Florent Joly and Bossuet d Laigle). He didn’t know much more about Eponine’s business partner than that. Except for the little fact that apparently, she had the most charming laugh. Eponine was pure business, cut throat enough to keep the bar’s stocks full and trouble away but Musichetta was the light in the dark for many of the poor sods who came their way, Musichetta oozes charisma, apparently. A good fit to the sometimes crass and blunt Eponine. 

“We’re looking for a tavern with a sign that reads ‘The Drunken Dragon’,”

 

“...*The Drunken Dragon*...?”

“Eponine met a dragon once, it was like… trying to be all mystical and shit apparently but she got it drunk, dunno how, and it was apparently the most hilarious thing in her life.”

“Right, Eponine is who to you, again? A friend?”

“My best friend, grew up together then I started travelling and she moved here with her little siblings. Well, not so little anymore. Gods, Gav is twelve by now and Azelma must be seventeen.”

“She takes care of them on her own?”

“Yeah, don’t ask about the parents, she might stab you. Anyway, she’s great, you’ll love her. You’ll love Musichetta too, she runs the place with Ep. Musi’s boyfriends are always around too. Usually. Joly is a physician and Bossuet is….many things, I think most recently, a carpenter.”

“You think?”

“Bossuet has very uniquely bad luck, he’s always getting fired or having some accident and needing a new trade. He’s probably going to make Joly go grey worrying over him by thirty.” 

“Is he cursed? I’ve heard of such things before.”

“Musichetta thought it must be a curse but she can’t discern anything, I guess. She and Ep are both pretty skilled but, Bossuet’s bad luck means that they also can’t cure it.”

“Sounds awful.”

“Eh, it doesn’t bring Bossuet down. He’s always laughing it off and smiling. He’s good like that.”

Grantaire spoke fondly about his friends, his lips quirked in such a genuine smile like Enjolras had not seen before on this solemn bard. Grantaire pushed some of his black curls back from his face and sighed, relaxed in the saddle of his horse. He stoked the shaggy brown horse’s mane absentmindedly as they went down the cobbled road of the street. 

Enjolras was caught in melancholy over his own friends by this, looking around with this growing stormy expression. He thought of Courfeyrac, who only would know that Combeferre was in danger via his amulet, but not how or where he was. Enjolras found himself clutching his own amulet tightly, knuckles going white and his hand aching a bit, the edges of the amulet digging into his gloved palm. 

“You miss your friends.” Grantaire’s voice struck him from his thoughts. 

“I...do. This is taking too long...Bastien is in danger and gods, Aurelien doesn’t even know what’s going on. He’s up north seeing the Council of Magi…” Enjolras trailed off, thinking about Courfeyrac’s sunny smile, Combeferre’s excellently passive aggressive commentary, the nights those three shared under the stars in youth and adulthood. Their bond was deep, one not severed. 

“It’s a suicide mission, trying to save your friend, you know.” Grantaire said, voice monotone. “You’ll die if you try, it probably isn’t worth it.” 

Enjolras felt the rage begin to build up inside of him. He opened his mouth to speak, to yell. 

“But, I think you can do it. I believe that, you, godling? You’re something special. A lesser man would fail at this mission.” Grantaire didn’t give Enjolras any time to react as he slid off of his horse after bringing the animal to a stop outside of a building. “Here we are! Aha!” He was thankful that in one of the letter’s Eponine sent, early on, that it had a general description of how to get to the bar. Grantaire kept all of the letters on him, as he had no permanent home. 

Enjolras slid off of his horse and tied the lead to a post beside Grantaire’s horse, looking up at the old building, obviously renovated, with a sign hanging out front. It read ‘The Drunken Dragon’ in big white letters, with a cartoonish illustration of a green dragon and beer mug on the sign above the lettering.

“Don’t be a pompous dick and Eponine will tolerate you.” Grantaire shot back at the blonde before heading to the door. He was almost at the door when suddenly it burst open and a very drunk sailor toppled out and onto the ground, seemingly pushed. He groaned and moaned, scrambling to get up. Grantaire stumbled back, falling on his ass beside the door, eyes wide.

“And stay out you good for nothing bastard!” A feminine voice screamed, belonging to an angry looking woman with dark skin, kinky textured hair pillowing down her back, and big black eyes. She wore a simple peach colored dress that complimented her figure, with an apron tied around front. She kicked the man, grabbing him by the collar and heaving him into the street. In a moment’s notice, as she saw the two newcomers, her entire persona took a one-eighty shift. “Hello! Welcome to The Drunken Dragon! Come in, come in!” She helped Grantaire to his feet and ushered the two of them inside with a charming smile, “What can I get you two?”

“O-oh, we’re looking for Eponine?” Grantaire started, with a small, unsure smile, “You’re Musichetta, right?” 

Musichetta’s eyes lit up. “The hair...the sad puppy dog eyes… the lute...You’re Grantaire! It’s nice to meet you, I’ll go get Eponine, you two take a seat, all right?” She smiled merrily and once she had them settled at a table, she turned and disappeared through another door behind the bar.

Enjolras was silent for a moment, blinking slowly. “What just happened?” 

Grantaire laughed.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments make my day so please let me know what you think so far!
> 
> -Mars


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